Fear and Loathing in Los Santos
by Chansy
Summary: When Ron awakens from a drug-induced haze to discover he has run Trevor Philips Industries into the ground, he is desperate to bring Trevor back to Sandy Shores to fix it all. But things go from bad to worse when he loses contact with his boss and is forced to travel to Los Santos, the Land of the Lizards, to find him himself. With an apathetic meth cook in tow, and a debilitating
1. Chapter 1

Things were bad. Things were very, very bad. He could handle the math, no problem. The statistics, prices, rates, quotas, he had no trouble with them. But in _character_ , he severely lacked. He had nowhere near the charisma, the conviction, the… the absolute _mania_ that _that man_ had for the business. And his skills as an accountant could only get him so far. Even now, as he sat on that filthy, tattered couch in his boss's trailer, he could feel their entire business crumbling around him. Everything that they had worked so hard on would collapse under his incompetency. Ron Jakowski stared out the filthy window, smudged with god-knows-what, and let out a shaky breath. His shaking hand held his good ol' pipe, but the first time in his life, he felt himself unable to take a hit.

Oh, God. What was he going to do? What on earth could he do? Ron stood up, paced back and forth in the cramped space, and sat down again. In about two weeks' time everything would be gone, and he would be dead. Even if he were to come out of it all still breathing, Trevor would surely beat him to death the minute he came home. And he'd let him. He'd _beg_ for it. His head dropped into his hands and he let out an agonizing wail. He ruined _everything_.

He raked his fingers through his hair and let his hat slide off onto the couch. He had to do _something._ He pulled out his phone and pulled up the long stream of texts he had sent to Trevor. Each one was more urgent than the last. None of them had been answered. None of them even had a read receipt. "Trevor…." Ron whined in his shaking voice. How he missed him and feared for him, down there in Los Santos, forced to live among those _reptiles_ … How Ron wished he could save him… but in reality he knew _he_ was the one who needed saving. He just hoped they hadn't hurt Trevor… Poor Trevor…

Left with nothing else, he went back to the only crutch he had. His thumb ran over the smooth but clouded glass of his pipe. How many times he had smoked he didn't know. Even in one day he'd lose count. He was aware of the risks, of course, but without it his risks were even greater. It was like oxygen to him now. Like the oxygen in Los Santos surely was, poisoned and slowly killing him, but at the same time a necessity. He laid back onto the couch after his hit to enjoy the start of the rush. He never liked to do anything until after he reached his peak and started coasting. The euphoria was debilitating in its own way, and Ron was frozen, staring at the ceiling as it washed away all worry he had previously entertained.

A sound of a gunshot outside caused Ron to shoot up out of the couch. It was a common occurrence in Sandy Shores and it carried the same monotony as the sound of a lawnmower or of birds chirping elsewhere. But when you're high, everything seems new and surprising. The gunshot was the start of a race for Ron, who ran out of Trevor's trailer and to his own. In the trash-strewn dirt lawn of his trailer, Ron hopped on his trusty Blazer, and raced off before he was even sure where he was going. He took out his phone and decided to give Wade a call. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it sooner.

"Hi Ron!" Wade shouted into the phone, obviously happy to receive a phone call from him. He continued to yell as he spoke, and Ron wasn't sure if it was because he was really happy, or just because of the music playing in the background. "How are ya! Los Santos is real nice Ron,"

"Wade—"

"You need to come down here! It's not scary,"

" _Wade_ —"

"The ladies are real nice to me and—"

" _Wade!_ " Ron was shouting now. Wade was like a son to him. He cared about him more than he did most people, and _almost_ half as much as Trevor. But _damn_ , was he hard to talk to. Wade was finally silent, and Ron continued, "Is Trevor there with you?"

"Trevor? No. He comes in sometimes but it's never for that long…"

"Have you seen him recently?"

"Recently? Shucks, I dunno Ron. I can't tell one day from another here. It's been a long time, though…"

" _Shit, shit, shit…."_ Ron swore under his breath and gritted his teeth.

"Ron? Trevor likes it here too, Ron. He likes it a lot."

"Okay… Okay! Okay. Thanks Wade. I'll see ya." Ron hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket. It has been exactly two and a half weeks since he had last heard from his boss, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something awful had happened. Sure, Trevor wasn't the type to send postcards to nobody, but he'd _at least_ read Ron's texts, even respond if Ron seemed panicked enough. And that new guy Trevor was hanging out with, that Michael Townley, Ron didn't trust him. He should have told Trevor before he left! If that Townley guy appeared in the news _after_ he died, it probably wasn't him! The government had been making clones of people for a long while now and… If only Trevor would just listen to his talk show… He'd understand! Ron's grip tightened on the handlebars, and before he realized it, he was right outside of Liquor Ace. He hopped off of the Blazer, but instead of entering the store he started pacing back and forth in front of the door.

 _What should he do? What should he do?_ Ron ran his fingers threw his hair and pulled, not even realizing that the hat that usually prevented him from doing so had blown off in the wind. He couldn't go down to Los Santos. He just couldn't. A guy like Ron would get eaten up down there in a matter of minutes. He wasn't any macho man. Not like Trevor… Ron's pacing grew more frantic. But… there was another guy though, who _might_ stand a chance. He stopped and looked up at the liquor store. That guy, he was about as handy as a back pocket in a shirt when you needed him the most, though. Sure he cooked good crystal and held the fort down in the lab, but other than that he was a ghost. Ron gritted his teeth. It was worth a shot.

A couple of fat shirtless men watched Ron at war with himself, running in circles, swearing under his breath. One took a sip of the beer in his hand and just slowly shook his head. Ron stopped and looked over at them, eyes wide like a deer stunned by headlights. He ran into Liquor Ace to escape their gaze. As he ran through the door to the back room the thick, foul stench of piss hit him so hard it almost knocked him back. Ron had to stop at the foot of the stairs to catch his breath. He needed three breaths for every single breath of fresh air he would take outside. Once he was adjusted, he stomped up the stairs, calling desperately. "Chef! Chef! Are ya there?" Ron pushed open the rotting door that separated the foyer from the lab. Sure as could be, there he was. Standing by the window, cigarette in hand, Chef turned to look at Ron.

If he was being completely honest, Ron wasn't expecting to see him there, and wasn't quite sure what to do for a minute. He's only said a few words to Chef, who hardly ever talked to him or Wade. And Ron was sure the cook only talked to Trevor because he was his boss. But there was no doubt the two had their similarities. Ron swallowed his spit and dashed forward. "Chef have you heard from Trevor!?"

"Woah, watch it!" Chef replied, making his way over to Ron. Obviously he was more concerned with Ron knocking something over than Trevor's wellbeing. Ron twisted his body to avoid the corner of the table holding various vials and beakers and picked up his feet as if stepping over imaginary obstacles.

"Chef have you heard from Trevor at all!?" He repeated, now standing only a few feet from the cook.

"Recently? Naw, I don't think so…."

"Can you try calling him?" Maybe Trevor was just ignoring him. Maybe he'd answer if it was Chef. Ron didn't want to believe it. He was Trevor's second-hand man, after all. But, he needed to be sure.

"Uh, sure." Chef replied, reaching into his pocket and giving Ron a quizzical look. He ran his thumb over the screen of his phone, held it to his ear, then put it back in his pocket. "Looks like his phone's off…"

"Oh god oh god oh god!" Ron pulled at his hair. "Trevor wouldn't turn his phone _off!_ And he wouldn't just let his phone _die_! Something's happened! Something _bad's_ happened! I _told_ him not to go there! I _told_ him!" He marched in tight circles in the dark musty room. It felt as though the world was crashing down all around him. He didn't have a choice now. He _needed_ to find out what happened to Trevor.

"What's going on?" Chef asked, uneasy with Ron's odd behavior.

"Something's happened to Trevor!" Ron stopped and turned, thrusting his hands arms out in front of him. "It's been two and a half weeks since I've heard from him! He hasn't answered my calls! He hasn't answered my texts! Something very bad's happened!"

"Woah woah, wait. Are ya sure? He might just be busy. He can take care of himself."

"He's in _Los Santos_ , Chef! The breeding ground of the Annunaki! Trevor doesn't know. He doesn't _know_ what they can do to him."

"Trevor can handle the Annunaki just fine—"

"Not if it's an ambush! You know there's a Michael Townley, De Santa, whatever the hell it goes by! S'posed to be Trevor's longtime friend who supposedly died ten years ago… I don't buy it at all!"

"That the stuffy old guy Trevor's been doing heists with?"

"Yes! That's him!" Ron wagged a finger at Chef, glad he was catching on.

"I've met him a couple times. I don't think he's in with the Annunaki-"

"That's what he _wants_ you to believe! He's got ya on the line. Tossin' some bait every now and then to make you think he's on your side until you get _real_ nice and comfortable enough and then, bam! Ambush!" Chef didn't reply, only stared at Ron with a faint look of shock. Ron nodded. He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. "We have to find him!"

"…Where d'you suppose he could be?"

"I can give Wade a call to see where he is and start from there. But I can't do this alone, Chef. I ain't as talented with a gun as you guys. I've been practicing and practicing and practicing and I can't seem to get any better. They'll eat me alive down there! You need to come down there with me! You know your way around there anyhow, right?"

After a long pause, Chef sighed. "…Alright. Not like I'm doing much here, seeing as we ain't cooking right now… But what about the business? Ain't you meant to be watching things here?" Ron's head dropped into his hands in despair.

"It's _all over_ if we can't find T, Chef! I screwed up bad! I can't do anything to fix it here, not without him."

"What's going on?"

"It's- it's all of them! The Aztecas, the Lost, these angry Chinese guys lurking around T's trailer. They just—They just all popped out outta nowhere! All at once!"

"Me and T took care of the Aztecas though—"

"Well they're back!" Ron screamed, his voice quickly filling the room. For a split second, Chef worried the frequency would start breaking the glasses.

"Alright, alright alright alright. Just calm down Ron. I'm sure T's fine. We'll drive down to LS first thing tomorrow, drag him back here, and let him fix it."

" _Tomorrow?_ He could be dead by tomorrow, if he ain't now!" Chef rested a hand on his forehead, tilted his head up towards the ceiling, and sighed.

"You got $20 for gas?"

"Well, ya see… With the settlement costs…"

"$20 or we ain't going til tomorrow." Ron reached into his pockets and pulled them inside out.

"G-Gimme a minute!" Ron pointed at Chef, a silent demand for him to stay where he was. He dashed out of the lab into the cooling desert air. He ran past his Blazer, kicking up a cloud of dust in his wake. Even if nobody else in the world cared, he did. Trevor was worth $20. More, actually. Running down the street back to his trailer, Ron suddenly thought he could run all the way to Los Santos, if he had the guts. Panting and leaning against his chain-link fence, Ron looked over at the sunset on the horizon. Somewhere, in that wasteland, he hoped Trevor was looking at the same sky.


	2. Chapter 2

"I-I guess I could just skip dinner…" Ron muttered in the passenger seat of the Journey. The vehicle was so rusty and loud, it was amazing it was still on the road. Even more amazing Chef managed to live it in all his time in Sandy Shores. "Yeah… It's… It's not a big deal…" Ron spoke carefully, trying to push a little bit of guilt onto Chef for stealing his $20 without getting the meth cook too angry.

"How much you eat, anyway? I know guys who go weeks before they realize they haven't eaten shit." Chef said casually. Either he was just ignoring Ron's attempts, or he was just dense. Knowing what Ron knew about the man, it could be either. Ron leaned back in his seat. He wasn't gonna test his luck by trying to push it. "Some good crystal, man. That's all they need to keep going… Man, I could go for a bowl right about now…" He leaned back in his seat. One hand casually navigated the Journey through the desert, the other rested on the windowsill. Ron wish he hadn't said anything. He was still coasting through his high, but just at the mention of crystal he could feel the cravings, like little parasites, lying in wait within him. They made themselves known, crawling out of their hiding places behind his organs and making their way to the surface of his skin. He thought, if he could kill them right then and there when they were their weakest, he wouldn't need to worry about withdrawal. He dug his nails into the flesh of his arm. "I'm gonna stop at the gas station to light up before we get on the freeway. It'll be your only bathroom break til we get to Los Santos." "Alright," Ron pulled his hand away. There was blood on his fingertips that ran underneath his nails. He must have gotten one.

* * *

When Ron got back to the van, Chef was real keyed up. He rapidly tapped on the steering wheel, cracked his neck, and turned to look at Ron as soon as his fingers grazed the door handle. "Man, I'm fucking wired," were the first words to fly from his mouth when Ron opened the door. "I reckon we'll make it to Los Santos before sunrise."

"God I hope so," Ron replied, jumping into the passenger seat. In a clenched fist he held a wad of bloodied toilet paper. He was proud to say after taking a leak, he killed a whole lot of those meddling critters. Spots on his face were still wet with blood, so he pressed the sticky tissue to his skin again. Chef turned the key in the ignition and the engine clumsily sputtered to life. The Journey lurched forward before the engine died. Chef swore under his breath. "Jeez, Chef," Ron said matter-of-factly, "I know Trevor ain't taking none of your earnings. You could get yourself a better RV"

"Why'd I do that?" Chef started the Journey again. "S'long as she still runs, I don't need another one." Ron scoffed.

"Barely"

"Ah, she just needs some warming up, is all." After a few more tries, they were back on the road. The sun stayed behind in the Senora Desert. Its red dying light waved goodbye to Ron as the Journey turned onto the freeway. Ron just didn't feel comfortable in a car unless the road was bumpy. The smooth asphalt of the road made him feel like he was floating, detached from the world. The temperature of his blood dropped sharply. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears. In the far-off distance he could faintly hear Chef casually talking about his talk show, his voice growing more fervent as he provided his own take on the drones. Shut up, shut up Chef… He thought to himself. I need to focus… He dug his nails into the armrest, as if trying desperately to keep from floating away. He looked out the window, at the bright lights of the cars that rushed past. He wondered how many of the people in those cars were actually human. He tilted his head back and opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish.

"You doing alright?" Chef asked, glancing over at Ron.

"Yeah… yeah yeah yeah…" Ron murmured. "Just keep driving… It's… It's the frequencies in Los Santos. I must be sensitive to 'em."

"You sure you can do this?"

"I gotta Chef. He needs me."

The road never ended. It ran to the end of the world and then ran right off the edge. When the Journey turned onto the exit ramp, it started. Ron quickly rolled down the window. He greedily sucked in large gulps of air. He knew his lungs worked. He could feel the cold air running across his tongue. But it wasn't enough. Was the air thinner the closer you got to Los Santos? Did anyone there even need oxygen? His body convulsed in the seat. He had long since gave up on trying to stop the shaking. For the first time in a while, he felt cold. So cold. But Ron braved the harsh wind, because keeping the window down was the only way he'd be able to breathe. In Blaine County, when it was night, it was dark. You couldn't see anything an inch from your face. But here, even away from the blinding lights of the city, the backroads were almost as bright as day.

Chef pulled over to the side of the ride and turned to face Ron. "You ain't OD'ing in my car, are you?" He asked, the caring tone in his voice betraying his blunt use of words.

"N-nah nah… I'm good… I'm good. Just keep driving, Chef." Ron struggled to form each syllable. His mind kept going back to the air of Los Santos. God, was it killing him? Would the tainted air kill him before they even made it to the city? He could feel his heart pounding. He drew in air in frantic gasps.

Chef didn't move, but kept staring at Ron. Ron couldn't pull away from the window long enough to shoot him a glare. He didn't know why the cook cared so much. It's not as though he could do anything to help him. And he sure as hell couldn't take him to the hospital. Oh god… A wave a nausea ran over Ron at the thought of a hospital in Los Santos. He couldn't even begin to imagine the horrific things that happened there. They'd dissect him! They'd probe him! He wasn't about to get raped by a bunch of scaly sons of bitches. He opened the door of the RV and leaned out. He gagged and coughed, but nothing came out. "Shit man," Chef leaned in closer. "You sure you're alright? You can't find T if you're dead. How much crystal did you smoke?"

"I'm fine Chef!" Ron yelled. _Don't talk about dying, you asshole!_ He slammed the door shut. He had to keep going. "Just drive!" The Journey turned onto the smooth road again and began its descent to the city. "I just gotta lay down for a bit…" Ron mumbled after a few moments passed and his heart had settled. He stood up and made his way to the bed in the back of the RV. Even with the RV gliding over the smooth asphalt, Ron stumbled and fell onto one of the back seats before he reached the bed. It felt like the bed was a mile away, but when he finally made it he curled up on top of the old musty sheets and stared at a poster of Hailey Downs that was peeling away from the wall. He somehow fell asleep while studying the curves of the model, trying to match them to the poster in Trevor's bedroom. He breath came out shaky on exhale. His hands rested lightly on his stomach. With this smooth road, he could pretend he was still, lying in Trevor's bed, waiting for his boss to get home.


End file.
